


For You

by Esthree



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, M/M, and a bit of romance, dwarven romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esthree/pseuds/Esthree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin lives through BoTFA (as do Fili and Kili). Now he and Dwalin have something to talk about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Тебе](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5102954) by [Esthree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esthree/pseuds/Esthree). 



> While saying goodbye to Bilbo Dwalin has a ring on his middle finger of his right hand.  
> http://i.imgur.com/iGAX159.jpg  
> But he didn't have it during the battle (though in some scenes from behind the scenes we can see it in detail). So it's a version of where he had got it from.
> 
> My eternal gratitude to my wonderful beta - Saetha, thank you so much!

Ravenhill is far enough from the Central Gate. Even on the back of a battle goat it takes long to get there, but for the dwarves who go down the rocky mountainside, careful not to jolt the litter with their injured king, the road seems endless. The eagles could be quite of use right now. Or the wizard. Damn it, even the elves. But they all are too busy defending the city of Dale against Bolg’s army, and the dwarves have to rely upon themselves, as always.

Thorin is still unconscious, whether from pain or from the blood loss, and Dwalin can’t stop thinking that it’s for the better. Together with Glóin they lay him on a table in the hall – one of many hastily cleaned up for healing purposes. Óin sends Ori to fetch his medical kit and starts washing his hands. Thorin is still breathing - labored and shallow breaths – by Mahal’s mercy. Or by miracle. In this very moment Dwalin is ready to believe in miracles more than ever.

“Take his clothes off,” Óin says loudly, scrubbing his fingers and cleaning dirt from under his nails, and Dwalin gets down to work. It’s a task he has done countless times before.

Thick leather gloves. Quilted gambeson, covered in orc blood, that usually goes under the armor, but it’s too late for that. Chain mail fastened with a rich broad belt. Dwalin cautiously slides his hand under Thorin’s back and lifts him a little, wary of the bleeding wound, to drag out the clothes and carefully lay him back down. There’s still the blue woolen coat left, with golden embroidery and wet with blood, and a thin undershirt. Dwalin takes out his knife and cuts the fabric. Óin steps close and inspects the wide gash.

“My beard!” He clicks his tongue. “Just a bit to the left and we’d have lost him.”

Ori storms into the room short of breath and hands him his kit with the medical supplies that he had found in Erebor. 

“Good. Now I need more water. Bilbo, go find some candles.” The old dwarf rubs his instruments clean with alcohol and bends over the table. “Dori, help me with this! And off you go, all of you. I’ll call you when it’s needed.”

Dwalin leaves the room with the others and sinks down heavily on a narrow bench covered with a thick layer of dust, leaning back against the cold stone wall.

There are so many wounded under the mountain: dwarves, men, elves. He must do something. He must stand up and try to be useful – look for blankets, bring water, make a fire. But he can’t. He just can’t.

There’s still the bundle of clothes in his hands. He straightens it out upon his knees, looking at the dark stains. The blood has dried up and the edges of the tear in the shirt have become black and stiff. Dwalin caresses them absently in a mindless attempt to mend everything – the hole, the wound. He should have been there, should have prevented it, averted the blow. But he didn’t. Not that he’d had a choice. Thorin had told him to take care of Fili and Kili, and he couldn’t do otherwise. He couldn’t leave them. They are alive, both, having gotten off with some broken bones. It might be of a consolation, but right now he can’t think about it. 

All of a sudden his fingers feel something through the thick fabric – a small round object. A hidden pocket maybe? Dwalin turns over the cloth and examines the inside of the shirt. There is a slit, almost invisible on the dark material. With difficulty he slips two fingers into the narrow pocket and takes out what he finds. A ring. Broad. Massive. Made of steel, not silver. With a slightly curved border and nielloed pattern. And across it there is a deep wide dent.

Dwalin turns it over in his fingers and holds it up, looking at it more closely and trying to discern in the dark of the hallway the runes, that are engraved on the inside. And then he throws back his head against the hewn stone and runs a hand over his face, feeling the strong, absurd, acute desire to cry. Or to laugh. Or both. 

 

Thorin opens his eyes. His body seems so light, almost weightless as if he has been feverish for a long time. His mind is blank. There are some odds and ends of a dream that are dissipating slowly, just vague remains of a once bright and vivid picture. Something about the Blue Mountains, about Gandalf and Thranduil, all of a sudden. An absurd dream, stupid and strange. Not a bad one. Not one of the nightmares that kept tormenting him these days.

_Fíli’s last glance – fearless, desperate. Kíli’s last cry turning into moan. Both his boys – with open wounds and parched lips. They smile. Wave at him. Call him. And then disappear before he can touch them._

_Then there are others: his father, grandfather and Frerin, again and again. Dáin comes with them. And Balin. Dwalin… He wants to hail them, but his throat is sealed, wants to go closer, but can’t move his feet, so he stands there rooted to the spot and watches them leave one by one. They look back at him with sadness and vanish in the dark, leaving him all alone._

The emptiness crashes down on him with solid stone blocks, burying him under its weight, choking him. And he tries, tries so hard, strains every nerve to break free… 

Sometimes he does: there are voices along with the bitter taste of a healing potion in his mouth. And then he is drawn into the whirlpool again, into the stream of wild visions somewhere between dreams and reality. 

_Dís. His beloved little sister. She looks him into the eyes, accusing and imploring at the same time. And never says a word. As if he doesn’t deserve it._

_Bilbo. He smiles and gives him the Arkenstone, but when he holds his hand, the hobbit turns into the dragon, and the scorching fire burns his face, his skin, his bones._

_Armoured hordes entering the mountain – he doesn’t know if those are elves or orcs - marching into the Halls of his ancestors, trampling everything that is dear to him._

_And over and over again – two boys, his heirs, his children, those whom he would choose over all the gold and gems and mithril…_

He couldn’t believe they were alive. He wanted them to be, oh, he wanted so much, but dreaded that it was a lie. Until they came to him, both, with such faces that there was no doubt: the dead look better. 

Perhaps it was also a dream? A vision he saw in fever and was glad to believe?

Thorin turns his head. Dwalin is sitting on a chair besides his bed, looking at something in his hand. Not a dream then. There’s Kíli’s sword, the one he wanted to sharpen but couldn’t with his arm broken, and Dwalin promised that he would do it for him. Only now the sword is standing by the wall and Dwalin is holding something small, round and… oh.

Thorin reaches at his chest where there should be the soft wool of his coat but feels thick layers of bandages instead. Shit.

Dwalin must have heard his groan, but he doesn’t move.

“When were you going to tell me?”

Thorin closes his eyes. He had thought it would be differently.

“I‘ve forged it in Ered Luin last winter.” He snorts. “Thought that if we go on this quest... I wanted to give it to you when we got back the mountain. And then it all turned out wrong…”

“What if somebody else found it?”

“I knew it would be you. Even if I couldn’t...”

Dwalin looks at him with such fierceness and Thorin realizes belatedly that it was not a such good thing to say. Dwalin frowns and tightens his hold on the ring.

“Why did you wait so long? Why not give it to me there, in the Blue Mountains?”

Thorin looks up in wonder.

_Because you deserve so much more. Because I wanted, for once, to share with you wealth and glory, not worries and grief._

“Because this is our homeland. Our kingdom. What would have a crownless king to offer you?”

Only, Dwalin thought otherwise. ‘You were always my king’. And an arsehole he had been, too. Memory ruthlessly shoves him ‘…but now you are lesser than ever’. He swallows hard.

“I understand if you don’t want…”

“Don’t even say it.”

Dwalin’s eyes are piercing him relentlessly like a blade, burning through him like molten lead. It should have been different but… he doesn’t care.

“Put it on.”

Slowly Dwalin puts the ring on his middle finger, then clenches and unclenches his hand as if trying to get used to the new feeling.

“I should have given it to you long ago.”

“You should.” Dwalin clenches his fist so hard that his knuckles turn white. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

_Glad?_

Dwalin rearranges Thorin’s blanket without looking at him and folds his hands on his knees.

“The blade glanced off it.” He traces the pattern tenderly, and Thorin notices the fresh dent shining bright on the dark metal. “It saved your life when I couldn’t.”

Dwalin’s voice is full of a mixture so familiar to him: anger, bitterness, guilt. _How does he dare to think this way?_

Thorin holds up his hand, reaching for the warm palm with the tips of his fingers.

“If it weren’t for you, there would be nothing.”

_There wouldn’t be me._

Grinning wryly, Dwalin seizes his hand and holds it tight. The ring hugs his finger and Thorin holds his breath: it looks so much like Dwalin. Solid. Sturdy. Beautiful. With a battle scar. _His_ ring. And _his_ Dwalin. And he doesn’t care that it changes nothing. That nobody will know except for those who know already. That their future always will be hidden behind thick walls and secret passages. There it is and it’s all that matters.


End file.
